Seattle Coffee Tour

Barista Jacob hard at work.

Pike Place Market, near our tour starting place.

When I was a child, coffee occupied the same space in my mind as did alcohol. It just had a very adult aura about it. It smelled dark and cozy and everytime I asked my dad about his steaming mugful, he’d snatch it away from me say, “NOT FOR KIDS.”

I didn’t drink it regularly until after college, at which point it was regarded as fuel - something purely utilitarian, just a tool to get me through the day. It didn’t help that most of the habitual coffee drinkers I knew were the same way, putting away 3 cups of bland liquid every morning to stay focused and productive.

I moved to Seattle with little sense of local coffee history / culture other than a vague impression of the rise of Starbucks. But this city has a way of endearing you to its passions, and it was about time I filled in the gaps. This past weekend I took a downtown specialty coffee tour with Lucas, offered through Airbnb experiences.

Easily the best cold brew of my life.

Our friendly tour guide.

First coffee I’ve had that was made in a Hario V60.

Over about a 2-hour period, we walked to a few iconic spots and had surprisingly in-depth conversations about the role of coffee in our lives, the ethics of pricing, and even extraction curves (?) and particle size and how those elements affect the taste of what eventually ends up in a cup. Got a long way to go before I’m tossing glassware around and making fancy “slow bar” drinks in a Chemex like Seattle Coffee Works barista Jacob, but at the very least…maybe it’s time I got my old French press out of storage.

The Edge of the Earth [2/2]

After leaving the coast, Nathan & I headed east along the winding Route 101 -- easily the most beautiful highway I have traveled -- to the inland forests and lakes of the Olympic Peninsula.

RAINFORESTS

Cold light filtering through Sol Duc trees.

Leaf-strewn paths of the Hoh Rainforest.

Sol Duc trailhead.

Dewy, feathery trees of Sol Duc.

Long-exposure Sol Duc Falls.

The Hoh Rainforest is a sprawling thing, dense and atmospheric and, on brighter and warmer afternoons, suffused with an otherworldly golden light. You half expect to become surrounded by fairies and nymphs while you crush brittle fallen leaves underfoot. Northeast of the Hoh region are the dewy, deep and eerie Sol Duc (or Soleduck) forests, chilly and silent and full to the brim with mist. Nestled in its canyon depths are the Sol Duc Falls, which rush over mossy rocks shimmering in the dampness. Sol Duc leaves you breathless. It is a pocket out of time.  

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LAKE CRESCENT & ENVIRONS

Fog over Lake Crescent.

Storm King Ranger Station.

A gray shroud for majestic firs.

The dock at Lake Crescent.

I thought Lake Quinaut was vast and mirror-like until we arrived at Lake Crescent on a cloudy day. The glacial lake emerges suddenly from between overlapping mountains and draws the eye forward like an arrow to the horizon. As time ticked by, fog rolled down nearby Storm King and blanketed the towering sentinel firs around us in gray. On a clear day, the waters are so clear you can see dropped coins and sunken boat tethers at the bottom. On this drizzly morning, all we saw were shifting pinpricks of rain breaking the tension of the lake.  

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HURRICANE RIDGE

Windswept along the south (?) side of Hurricane Ridge outlook.

The Mustang on the ridge.

Misty mountain road.

Rolling blue peaks.

Nathan the photographer, hard at work.

And lastly, the mountains called. We took the steep and nerve-wracking road up to the lookout on Hurricane Ridge, made a little easier by the low center of gravity and the stability of our rental Mustang. There was little snow covering the peaks this time, as it was a drier, warmer October, so we were greeted by an unobstructed view of the ridge's gently gradated blue peaks rolling like waves into the distance.  

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As tough as it is to tear oneself away from a place like the Olympic Peninsula, a reluctant departure is inevitable for the itinerant traveler. And when it happens, the only consolation is the knowledge that the visitor has ideally perhaps developed a humbled awareness of their smallness in the universe. These forests are ancient. The lakes are prehistoric. Older still are the mountains that once cradled glaciers that came to fill their deep valleys. Older are the rocks that punctuate miles of wild coast, and even older are the pinpoints of brightness that spin above the land in the night, a dome of diffuse starlight. But for me this is enough. No grand changes, no earth-shaking discoveries necessary. Maybe to know such extraordinary and liberating insignificance before the foundations of the Earth is never to leave the great Northwest.

The Edge of the Earth [1/2]

Writing about people and experiences that are near and dear to my heart is extraordinarily difficult for me. It comes down to an anxiety about falling short -- about not possessing language sharp and poetic enough to do my subject justice. As Henry James wrote in the novel Roderick Hudson:

"...the faculty of expression is wanting, but the need for expression remains, and I spend my days groping for the latch of a closed door."

The Pacific Northwest is all of these for me: a loved one, a precious experience, an expression I yearn to create, and both the latch and the closed door itself. Upon my first visit to the Northwest in 2011, I thought the region would be my "latch" -- a gorgeous wonderland-as-muse that would lead me to new heights of literary vision. It didn't happen.

I returned in 2013 and again this past fall, and the great Northwest becomes more opaque to me each time. With repeated sadness I've come to regard the Olympic Peninsula as something too large for me, too sublime. I'm regrettably unable to write the traditional traveler's reflection of problem-journey-growth-resolution on my trip, as there is no logic -- no plot arc, no meaning -- to how the Northwest swallows you up in its briskness, its mistiness, its ruggedness…and leaves you humbled and sad and aching at once. 

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QUINAULT

Boats on the shores of Lake Quinault, evening.

Shot by Nathan Haley on Lake Quinault, morning.

Sunlight over Quinault Lodge.

Nathan under a mossy Quinault Lodge shelter.

Lodge lobby.

The lake ablaze.

We began our trip with Quinault, a glassy lake cradled by forested mountains. Back in 2011 my family passed through the area, found it striking, and regretted not leaving enough time in our schedule to idle on its pebbly shores. With this in mind, my boyfriend & I stayed at the Rain Forest Resort Village just down the road from the more famous Quinault Lodge (where Roosevelt once dined), enjoyed a lake view from our enormous window, and had breakfast omelets in the main lodge's restaurant on chilly mornings. In the evenings we took our time dining on fresh Pacific salmon and watching the sun set Lake Quinault ablaze.

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KALALOCH & RUBY

Ruby Beach on an overcast morning.

Kalaloch (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

Bleached wood bridge at Kalaloch.

The massive ocean-facing windows of Kalaloch Lodge's restaurant.

Golden hour en route to Ruby.

Mist and rocks at Ruby on a sunny afternoon.

Ruby sunset. (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

Ruby sunset & a photographer at work (available as print @ NoSoundOfWater at Society6)

The beaches of the Washington Coast are among the dearest places on Earth to me, and among them, Ruby Beach is king. Its boulders, stacks and scattered driftwood have a sense of balance and depth of which I imagine John Ruskin would be especially appreciative. South of Ruby are a series of expansive, bleached-white beaches that never fail to tickle my negative space fancy.

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LA PUSH & CAPE FLATTERY

Cape Flattery, shot by Nathan Haley

James Island in the sun.

Comin' down the mountain (of driftwood)

Nathan at Neah Bay

Cape Flattery

On the 4th and 5th days of our trip, we headed north of Ruby to the Quileute reservation of La Push, where we climbed its striking, bony pile of driftwood and squinted against the glare of the sun off of James Island. Even farther north we encountered winding mountain-meets-coastline roads leading to Neah Bay (of the Makah people) and then to Cape Flattery, the most northwesterly point of the contiguous United States. Cape Flattery is otherworldly -- it's like something out of Middle Earth, with its feathery, wind-bent trees and mossy islands of all sizes rising from turquoise waters.

TBC in "The Edge of the Earth" part 2

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